


find me, see me, run and never tire

by larienelengasse



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Resurrection, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:07:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larienelengasse/pseuds/larienelengasse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>One of many codas to 5.22, many amazing ones; and because man, we all need some resolution and something happy. Title from The Ryan Adams’s “Desire,” which played on heavy rotation during the writing of this story.</p>
    </blockquote>





	find me, see me, run and never tire

**Author's Note:**

> One of many codas to 5.22, many amazing ones; and because man, we all need some resolution and something happy. Title from The Ryan Adams’s “Desire,” which played on heavy rotation during the writing of this story.

Title: find me, see me, run and never tire  
Author: larienelengasse  
Genre: Wincest  
Rating: PG for language and mature themes (attempted suicide, implied consensual fraternal incest)  
Characters: Sam/Dean  
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.22. Implied major character death, angst, profanity, Wincest  
Word count: 1187  
Beta: me, myself, and I  
Feedback: Would be much appreciated.  
Author’s note: One of many codas to 5.22, many amazing ones; and because man, we all need some resolution and something happy. Title from The Ryan Adams’s “Desire,” which played on heavy rotation during the writing of this story.

Someone once said that it is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all. Whoever said that didn’t know shit about love or loss, and they definitely didn’t know jack about real, gut-twisting, soul-sucking, drowning grief.

Dean moved through life numb. He smiled when he was supposed to, said the right things (for once), ruffled Ben’s hair when the kid did something downright adorable and made love to Lisa in their bed. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, that he didn’t think Lisa was amazing and Ben the coolest kid on the face of the earth. It wasn’t that, once upon a time, (before he knew what he knows now) he didn’t think that he wanted this “normal” life. But he did know the truth, and he had said it once, what now feels like an eternity ago, to Lisa. This wasn’t his life and it never would be.

He learned something about himself when he was lying on the ground, beaten to a pulp by his brother’s fists. It wasn’t Sam who pummeled his face to mush – he knew that. Even with each bone-crushing blow, he knew it; it was why he kept comforting his little brother, even when he started to choke on his own blood.

He saw Sam, his Sam, his Sammy in those blue-green eyes, so when the beating stopped, he wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t surprised that his little brother won.

When Sam looked at him from the edge of the abyss he didn’t say anything, neither of them did. But then they didn’t have to; the look in Sam’s eyes said it all.

Dean lost everything that ever mattered to him when Sam threw himself in, and not a second of a single day went by that his heart didn’t shatter anew when he thought of Sam’s eternal, inexplicable torment in Hell.

They, whoever they are, also said that the imagination was worse than reality. Man if that wasn’t a crock of shit he didn’t know what was. He knew what Sam was going through, what he would always go through now and forever. He carried those memories of his own time in Hell fresh in his mind, so he knew. He knew.

That was why he couldn’t sleep unless he put himself into an alcohol-induced coma. Why he couldn’t get through the day unless numbed by whisky or pills or anything else he could get his hands on. He made Sam a promise and he was trying to keep it, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

How was he supposed to go on without Sam? He was the walking dead.

The night breeze would have been comforting any other time. In a weird way, he supposed it was comforting now too. It gently lifted his shirttails and nudged them this way and that, carrying the pungent scent of oak and warm sage grass to his nose. He took a long drag of Johnny Walker Black, because if he was going to off himself, he was going to go out in style.

He pulled his gun, the moon caused it to gleam cold, pale silver. The ivory handle was worn to fit his hand perfectly. He turned it this way then that, catching his distorted reflection in the polished barrel.

He didn’t say anything. Words were pointless and inadequate – there were no words in English or any other language that could convey what he felt like and there was no one to say them to anyway. He didn’t know where he’d end up, in Heaven or in Hell, but it didn’t really matter anymore because he couldn’t stay here, not without Sam. If he ended up in Heaven, he hoped that God could at least wipe his memory, or somehow he could convince him to save Sam. If he ended up in Hell, so much the better, because he’d walk right into the pit if it meant making sure that Sam wasn’t alone.

He took one last walk around the Impala, his scarred and rough hands caressing her smooth lines. She was clean and polished, totally detailed and pristine. He left a note on the dashboard for Bobby to scrap her. He couldn’t bear for anyone else to take her and wipe their lives from her. He climbed up on the hood and sat down. The metal was still warm and he listened to the soft tick-tick-tick of her cooling engine. He leaned back against the windshield and looked at the stars, remembering all the times that he and Sam had done just this. Then he closed his eyes, placed the barrel of his gun beneath his chin, and pulled the trigger. The hammer struck home with a loud click.

Misfire.

His gun had never misfired, not once. He cleaned it the night before, loaded it not ten minutes before. His heart pounded and his pulse raced.

“Dammit,” he growled.

A warm hand covered his own on the handle of the gun and he quickly opened his eyes.

“Sam?”

Sam smiled and nodded. “Just what the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Is it really you?”

“Yeah, Jerk. It’s me. Blowing your brains out? Really? Don’t you think this is a little melodramatic?”

“It’s really you.”

“Yeah, Dean. It’s really me.”

Dean threw a punch, connecting with Sam’s jaw and sending him staggering backward. “Where the fuck have you been, you son of a bitch!?!”

Sam rubbed his jaw and gently moved it. “I see the pills and the booze haven’t dulled your reflexes at all.”

Dean was off the car and had Sam’s shirt in his fists faster than even he could have imagined. “That’s all you’re gonna say? I’ve been . . . It’s been . . .”

Sam placed his massive hands on Dean’s head. “I know.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Dean’s. “Believe me, I know. I remember.”

Dean took Sam’s shirt in his fists and closed his eyes. “Where have you been?”

“Watching. Waiting. I’ve been hoping you’d go on, that you’d forget and have what you’ve always wanted. But I understand now. I think I’ve always known it, but I never once believed that you’d see it too.”

“I see,” Dean murmured. “It took me awhile, but I see.” He opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was Sam’s smile – his dimples and white teeth.

“Yeah,” Sam answered softly. “Yeah.”

Dean felt Sam’s large hand on the back of his neck, long fingers sliding into his hair.

“Yeah,” he whispered, then he closed on Sam, pressing his mouth to his brother’s.

Whoever said that it was better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all was wrong. It was better to have loved and lost and given the chance to love again.

“Sam,” Dean breathed. “I…”

“Me too, Dean. Me too,” Sam murmured against his mouth. “Now shut up and show me, jerk.”

Dean smiled and kissed Sam again.

He didn’t recall ever feeling like this before. He felt safe, whole, happy, and at peace. He felt . . . in love.

~Finis


End file.
